


Misery

by LauraLatts



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9571520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraLatts/pseuds/LauraLatts
Summary: Recently after Ford had fallen into the portal and he's  very weak and stressed and full of anxiety. Fiddauthor slightly mentioned. A lot of angst, really.





	

Ford sighed and wrapped his coat around him tighter, keeping the wind chill off as he stared at the low fire. He had to derail his mind, but he couldn’t. How could he? Everything went to hell, as if he didn’t live there for so much of his life to begin with. But now he’s lost everything, save a shred of his sanity and that seemed to be slipping.

Again his stomach churned, nauseous and angry with him. He groaned and held himself tighter. He’ll have to wait till dawn. Look for food. Another roll and suddenly eating didn’t sound good. Ford was surprised. He needed to eat, but the thought of any food made him sick. Worse than any cold or flu he’s ever had. Fuck if he’s sick now he’s really screwed cause he’ll have to rest but he can’t stay and..is he...shaking?

Ford stared down at his hands, trembling in the fire’s light. His throat was tight and he found it hard to breathe. He can’t get sick. No. Not NOW! If he got sick and ended up dying right here and no one would even know, and he would always be lost, and forgotten, and alone. And…

‘Shit..’, Ford wrapped himself close, trying hard to keep it together and failing miserably.

He wished he could be home. He wished home was like when Fiddleford was around. Warm, comforting, when everything felt perfect. His mind tortured him with the memories of how wonderful everything was. He never felt more at peace with his place in the world. He felt like he finally BELONGED. There. With him… With Fiddleford.

He could still smell the warm biscuits in the oven. Fiddleford’s thin arms wrapping around him, comforting him. That smile.. His beautiful smile and laugh.

That scowl…those tears and that scream.

It was all Ford’s fault that he lost him. That he lost all of that. What a fool he was! To have lost something so close to heaven!

Voices beated down on him, his own as well as those of the past, still haunting him. Calling out his faults. Blaming him for not being smart enough to see his error sooner. Claiming he was gullible. A fool. A waste of time! Fiddleford would’ve left him anyway. He wasn’t anything truly remarkable. He wasn’t anything really special. He was just a freak. A gullible freak who’d never find love.

And now a gullible freak who’s sick and will die out here without any hope to go back and correct the mistake and even if he could, Fiddleford would still hate him. He’d still hate him for all the shit Ford put him through and damn he wants to go back.

He wants to go back and tell Fiddleford how much he loves him. How much he cares for him. That he’d never take him for granted again. He wants to hold his hands again. He wants to see his smile. To watch him relax in the evening and listen to those silly songs on the banjo. But he can’t.

He can’t because Fiddleford is light-years away and he’ll never see him again. He’ll never hear him encourage him when he’s down. He’ll never get to wake up and see those beautiful blue eyes smile back at him, giving him reason to believe there was ever anything good in a world. He’ll never be there to make Stanford believe that life truly is a precious and blessed thing to have.

The tight lump in his throat made him choke and his stomach was a furious mess with him. Finally he couldn’t hold back and had to kneel to throw up stomach acid and what little he had eaten, all over the ground. The pain brought tears to his eyes and when he finished, he crawled away from the mess and laid in the sand, to weak to move.

Ford was not a man to cry. Ever since he was young, it’s been thoroughly taught, men don’t cry. You do NOT cry. You have NOTHING to cry about. Strong men do NOT cry.

But Ford was not strong.

He was weak.

And a wreck.

Torn apart.

Broken.

So he sobbed. He tugged his hair and bawled into his knees. He hadn’t cried since he was 17. And now he’s a grown man of over-30 and he was crying like a little kid wanting his mommy. He cried so hard, he almost couldn’t breathe. His inhales were stuttery and gasping and it hurt, almost choked. His sobs were almost screams. He let out everything. He wailed until he was exhausted. Tears spent. And breath slowly returning, Ford laid there and watched the fire dance low. Regret settled heavy on him like a blanket that held no warmth. And soon, sleep did too.


End file.
